abandoned post WWI RP

[7/13/2011 12:24:23 AM | Edited 12:26:17 AM] Tavvy/RoBroNep/Monty: The Great War is finally over. Most of the northern hemisphere is turning to fall, sliding slowly into the chill of winter, Americans preparing for their long awaited Thanksgiving dinners. And most of the western world was celebrating their victory in the greatest and most terrible war the Earth had yet seen.

Different peoples in the winning nations celebrated in thir own way. Some with parties and women and beer, some with quiet prayers of thanks, some with large scale celebrations and pyrotechniques, all with headlines and smiles and a relieved sigh.

With the war over, some families took it as a chance to take a long awaited European vacation. More specifically, a small Spanish family of three decided to tour the historic country of Italy. They of course found themselves lost, but they laughed it off, finding joy and beauty in the beautiful countryside, stopping in a small town, staying at a small, but wonderfully quaint inn with friendly service.

The adults were young, A man and a woman greatly in love and still in their twenties, with their little girl of six (going on seven). The father mustached and spectacled, with dark hair and light olive skin, the mother with tan features and brown curls, and their daughter as sweet and colored as a homemade caramel.

They hiked into the hills, into an almost overgrown meadow, found a relaxed spot where they could watch the clouds and the birds and a herd of sheep down the way, and set up their blanket and basket for a picnic. The little one, staying out of the way, romped about in the grass, playing little games in her head, until she spots a particular large butterfly. At it's sheer size, she gasps, and names it a fairy before promptly trying to catch it. It flees, bright wings fluttering in the air as she chases, laughing, calling for her fae friend to come back and talk to her, or asking if it was leading her to the fairy world. Her parents watched and laughed, and told her not to wander to far as she became absorbed in her little magical world of her mind, chasing the 'fairy' into a small wood, just out of sight of her family.

[8/22/2011 10:17:34 PM | Edited 10:19:37 PM] Brosiden: The mud of many roads scarred his worn leather boots, tracked faint ghosts across the stonework street. Women, much older than he remembered, pulled their children back, kept their gazes down after a moment’s flickering pity crossed their gaze.  Cool eyes locked on the distant hill, he ignored the looks, the whispers – every hint and reminder that he no longer belonged there.  He felt himself light, a floating weakness taking him over, pushing him on and on through winding gravel roads and half-beaten paths, pulling him ever close to that simple wooden door.

The knots were the same as always, the white-chipped paint now tainted with age and weather. His knuckles send flecks of paint falling down – a chemical ash torn away as the door swings open.

She’s old now, shoulders pulled slowly together by the weight of the world. For a moment he stands stock still, waiting for those familiar eyes to widen, for the woman’s face to pull into a wide smile and her thin hands wrap around him, pulling him back to the life he once knew.

“What’s your business?” She says instead, arms crossed and that same blank look of bitter non-recognition on her face. His chest feels tight, stunned into momentary silence. “I-“ He stumbles, not knowing what to say, what to do.

“You’ve taken my sons already. Whatever it you want from us, Soldier, we have nothing to give. State your business or leave.” Her voice is sharp, tone clipped.

“The war’s over.” It’s all he can think of, all he can get through the stones lingering in his throat.

“Then why haven’t my sons come back.” The door is slammed in his face, his hand raised and head dipped down.

“Mom...” The wood is firm under his fingers, blurring as he feels something begin to burn. “Mom, I’m back. I’m back, so please...”

“Leave.” She’s popping her head out the window, his whispered words left to fade like smoke, not to be heard. “Leave!” She screeched, brown hair flying before brown eyes, and orders were orders. He left, eyes wide as he stumbled back, locked in a daze as he trailed away, following beaten path after beaten path.

His sheep run from him, keeping far away from the stranger in green. He doesn’t call to them, doesn’t whistle, doesn’t speak. He can’t.

The forest ground is uneven, covered in long fallen logs and rust coloured leaves left from fall after fall. He moves on automatic, finding  a decent tree, a good length of rope in his pack – he still has all he needs, all that’s left from his time at the front.

He laughs to himself as he tests the rope, finds the knot strong. Three years. He had been gone just three years, and the rope feels so nice around his neck, toes curled around a mossy rock.

[8/22/2011 11:05:31 PM] Tavvy/RoBroNep/Monty: There's a lot of works of art about butterflies. Paintings and poems and films and photographs. Of their beauty and grace and the emotions they instill in those who view them, of their supernatural aspects, through fiction or reality, and their perfection in their simplicity. And this might be one of those moments one would see in a book, in an art gallery, in a long lost and possibly ficticious memory, as one of said insects floats past a veteran in the woods, just a third of a foot from his face, and in that moment it represented Fate. And just as quickly and randomly as that moment came, it fluttered away with the creature as it escaped between the trees.

Seconds later it was followed by little pattering, crunching footsteps across the leaf and stick strewn forest floor, and by a little voice to match, calling "Hada! Hada!" And then the noisy suddenly stops, replaced instead by little pants of breath from little lungs, from an equally little girl.

The winged little beast she'd been chasing forgotten, the child simply stares up at the very tall man who for some reason seems to have leashed himself to a tree branch. How silly of him! He is not a dog told to stay put, he is a man, what could be going through his head, honestly.

She tilts her head to one side and asks, in a language very similar and yet very different from the man's, what on earth is he doing.

"¿Qué estás haciendo?"